Unserious postmodern paintings.

The locust had been waiting for three days. Not for food, nor for mates, but for the moment the teacup would finally…

He had retired from tunneling three years ago, but the habit of checking for structural weaknesses in the earth lingered. Each morning…

The chachalaca had not blinked in seventeen hours. It had scrolled past 4,312 memes, liked 87 posts about existential bird fatigue, and…

The hare had spent three weeks calculating load-bearing ratios for the apartment’s bookshelf, convinced it could support the encyclopedia set if properly…

The wasp had retired from stinging after the incident with the picnic blanket and the overexcited toddler. Now it passed the hours…

The budgerigar had been told it was special, but after years of waiting for signs, it concluded that being radiantly average was…

The sardine had been left behind during the great office reorganization of 2019, when someone mistook it for a decorative paperweight and…

The bream had been submitted for routine classification three weeks prior, its species deemed ambiguously aquatic and thus requiring triplicate verification. No…

The skunk had been waiting for the tea to cool for seventeen minutes. It had read the label three times: 'Chamomile, for…

The mallard had been invited to the salon not for its plumage, but for its reputation: it never quacked, never begged for…

The oriole had been reliable for exactly three Tuesdays in a row—delivering jam, not stealing it, just leaving the lid slightly ajar…

The gnatcatcher had expected worms. Not the kind sold in pet stores, but the wild, wriggling sort that darted just beneath the…